


break through the noise

by Sonny



Series: Cracks In The Pavement [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Dram, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Set in "The End"-s universe of 5yrs in the future with Future!Dean--runs alongside of "Swan Song"-s end into Season 6 with Soulless!Sam - It's Zachariah's fault; he managed to "open" a permanent portal that's been doing nothing but quaking and shifting the whole world into itself as Dean and Sam go on in their lives--5yrs in the past ; With Zachariah's unfortunate death, Heaven has been a little lax in awareness about what kind of "Hell On Earth" has been created right under their noses...</p>
            </blockquote>





	break through the noise

**Author's Note:**

> Sub-Summary (for Future!Dean) - Future!Dean returns to his own life, after he died at the end of "The End", and finds that the world he once knew is no longer his present. Lucifer, in Sam's meatsuit, still walks this Earth, there's still a Zombie Apocalypse that knows no end, but now there's tremors and quakes, leaving cracks in the pavement... and wherever those "cracks" are, there's been a minor or major change in the world. But now, Future!Dean has a loving wife -pregnant with their second child (five months along)- and teenage son. He'll try to keep his own family together while relearning who Sam has actually become for him, if he's not really Lucifer...
> 
> Sub-Summary (for Soulless!Sam) - Instead of asking Sam to leave for a few weeks, Samuel has asked a good friend of his to "send" his grandson somewhere (anywhere ; he doesn't care) where no one can find him and tail them as the Campbell clan have gotten closer and closer to successful hunts, killing and ridding the Earth of all Evil and the Un-holy ; Reluctantly, Sam agrees to be sent into "hibernation", but has no idea to where he will be transported. Unfortunately, for him, he's got the same face as Lucifer and he doesn't quite "act" like Sam Winchester anymore.
> 
> And then Dean meets Sam...

  
**break through the noise**   
  
Dean's head is spinning and he's damn sure there's a headache approaching for him in the next few hours if he doesn't try to go outside to get fresh air and clear his mind. He's been brought up to speed on the current situation as clearly and precise as he can be.

Rehan, seeing Dean's discomfort, has cleared the meeting room/classroom. Everyone is now upstairs in the activity room, discussing their days and when they felt the last quakes and the little tremors in between. This time the tally of cracks in the pavement weren't more than five; nothing horrific has been found. At least no one has vanished or dropped in unexpectedly. Some of the townsfolk talked about getting the Resistance back in formation, now that they had a chance with their warrior-like Dean Winchester in command—possibly, for good. They could almost feel hope on the horizon—a righteous end to the zombies so they could focus attentions on the bigger issues cropping forth.

She stands in the back of the room, soothing over her belly as she watches Dean sit in that puny school desk with hands folded on the table surface. She eyes him leaning forward, bringing his hands to his face as he rubs at cheek and along to temple. He untucks himself from the school desk, hooking thumbtips in the belt loops of his jeans. He wanders up to the huge dry-erase board lining the wall—used as a chalkboard—and moves from one end to the other as he attempts to make sure he's got this whole story straight. It's majorly fucked-up, is all that can be deciphered.

The second Dean's on his feet, Rehan strolls down the same aisle and takes the seat he left. Her protruding belly prevents her from sitting exactly like he had; she sits to the left, legs stretched out and swollen ankles crossed. “What's on your mind?” She's missed their talks; _her_ Dean told her everything. She's pretty sure she's being ignored; _this_ Dean is becoming frustrated by the minute and can't seem to vocalize one single thought out loud. “Talk to me, Dean.”

Dean isn't used to a pecking conscious. He likes to think things over on his own. He doesn't feel like including this nice, pretty pregnant lady in with his penchant for foolish worrying, but it seems like this _other_ Dean, that used to be her husband, shared as much of himself as humanely possible. He's never done that before, not with the women in his life. Dean never would've over-shared with John or Sam before and he very much doubts that he'd open a door like that to anyone he professes to love or hold affections for.

“I feel like I'm back in grade school. I hear what I'm being told, but it's like it goes in one ear and out the other. I'd take what I was taught home with me, put my spin on it and _wah-lah!_ I got the shit all figured out through my own mind. I think it's because— _this_... is no way to fuckin' live. We thought the apocalyptic world was a disaster, such a roll of the dice. But this— _this_...” He gestures to all the drawings and words on the boards. “... this is unreal. I don't know how any of you, still in this town, have survived.” Dean sincerely thinks most people, in his past, would have contemplated suicide or suicidal missions straight into death.

“It makes us stronger, Dean—the uncertainty of life... of who we _really_ are. It makes every moment that much more precious.”

“I've never, in my life, seen a more upbeat and optimistic—yet, skittish—group of fighters.” Dean is impressed by everyone's outlook into a viable future, where the world is put back to rights. “I suppose that once you're assured that you're in your rightful place, in this future world, it makes life more profound.”

“— _something worth dying for_...” Rehan mutters under breath.

“What?”

“Living. Pure existence.” Rehan clears her throat, shrugs her shoulders one at a time. “I've heard them speak about how you—never married... how you never tied yourself down with your own family, tried to live a happy home-life. Yet... well, my husband and I arrived and I was able to get pregnant again—we thought both of us were here permanently, at least until the birth. But it seems it was only _my_ permanence, not us together.” There is a moment where she drifts off in thought, but is soon back to looking over at Dean. “Our destinies change again and again—they never stay the same because of what goes on five years in the past. I may not exist then, but it tells us you have a wife and a child, a son—maybe you still do.”

“Did you love _him_ —uh... me?” Dean is assured she did, which makes him wonder if she could simply transfer feelings that easily onto him.

Rehan almost flirts with Dean as she gives him a low-lidded gaze over her shoulder. “He's my life— _was_ my life. I would follow him anywhere; it seems like I did—to the ends of the Earth.”

“How did he die?” Odd how no one dares to tell Dean an answer to a question he's been wanting to ask.

“hehe... you know, it's ironic. We had gone through all the zombie, demon, zombie-demon drills, but I don't think we were ever prepared for the outcropping of the Subhumans. Those human-'bots they told you about.”

“He was killed by one of us?”

“No. An outsider, posing as a, uh... as someone sent to us to transfer news from town to town.”

“Like a carrier pigeon?”

“Yeah, _something_ like that. They work for food and clothes—a shower, maybe. It's like a human newspaper. He knew a lot and he stayed with us for a week or so before he—my husband wasn't the leader-type. But I guess everyone flocked to him—to us—for sanity and semi-control. Dean always had a way about him that comforted people.”

“Really?” Dean's been stunned by the continual praise his other self has been getting. He didn't want to say he sounded like a pansy, but he was starting to get caught up in the town's outlook on winning this war.

“I know. That's so unlike who you _truly_ are, but I'd like to think that— _deep down_ —my husband was every bit of you. If you stripped away what makes you— _you_. The 'you' seen in public.”

“Don't worry... I think I'm beginning to understand how you all have to talk here. I guess I was lucky enough to be brought back since...” Dean furrows his brow heavily. “... the fact that I'm here means things have changed at the point of Michael and Lucifer's meeting.”

“You must've said 'no'.”

“So _who_ took my place? Well, wait... if I said 'no'— _which troubles me_ —what the hell did Sam do?”

Rehan was attempting to get used to hearing that name uttered. She's known her husband as an only child, raised by elder parents. “I don't really know. It was best that Dean didn't learn either.” She closes her eyes to take a deep breath, releasing a smile. “I'm sorry, I'm gonna have to stop doing that to you. It was advised that since you didn't know Sam as your brother to never be told anything about him. I followed suit as did our son. You know, should we come face-to-face with Lucifer and we doubted whether we should kill him or attempt to save your brother—thinking we could do something as ludicrous as getting his soul back.”

Dean nods in understanding, then folds his arms, staring down at the floor. “Once Lucy has him, there's no way back. No 'do over'.”

“mmm, yeah, that's what we've thought too. But there are still people here who believe they can get Sam back.”

“Who?”

“ ** _Us! You damn idgit!_** ”

From the side door, Bobby Singer walks in with a very worn-out and rough-around-the-edges looking Castiel. Bobby stops at the first row of desks as if he expects Dean to meet him halfway. “Jesus...” Tears mist his one good eye as a black leather patch covers the other. He no longer wears a trucker cap but a dusty, flimsy cowboy hat. It works with the rest of his wardrobe as he doesn't wear goose-down vests over long-sleeved plaid button-down shirts. He looks like Indiana Jones' junkyard-owning uncle.

And boy is he a sight for Dean's sore eyes.

Dean crosses the room in mere seconds, holding onto the second father he's grown up with all his life. Before this mess, he was never able to say how he really felt... and Bobby's death had been the final straw that broke his soul completely—his indelible spirit. Dean had no one left of close family.

Rehan gulps down her emotions. She loves Bobby, though she and _her_ Dean had never known him until arriving here. If there was one thing to hate about Bobby, it was his incessant belief they could win and defeat Lucifer, then this Zombie Apocalypse could be dealt with on its own. Bobby is one of the few individuals who isn't phased by the shifts in their future world; he, basically, keeps the focus on Sam. It was important to get Sam, because Sam was key... Sam- _Sam_ - ** _Sam_** - **SAM!**

Dean lets go of Bobby, then briefly hugs and regreets Castiel. There's mumbled conversational bits between all three, but Rehan refuses to pay too close attention, knowing some of the discussion is private and simply to catch up between old friends. Castiel only mutters monosyllabic responses, nodding his head as he gaze averts elsewhere.

Rehan feels the keen blue eyes on her from across the room. They always unnerve her by their intensity. She knows of Castiel's reputation with his harem of women. He's a gentleman in her presence, but sometimes she wonders exactly what he thinks about her, especially whenever his gaze darts to her five-month pregnant belly.

Since falling from grace, Castiel wants to find something to believe in again. He's tired of this world. Now it sucks even more for him as he's not certain he's supposed to be here. Jimmy Novak has been spotted one state over, in another county. People keep calling Castiel “Jim” or “Jimmy” and the next person who does, he'll punch them in the neck. Yes, he has a harem of ladies; eons as an Angel of the Lord has given him a serious case of blue balls. Yes, he drinks Dean under the table; he's not the local drunk, but he's one Jim Beam away from owning the moniker. Yes, he even does drugs, but his favorite is Mary Jane. Not the hand-me-down kind, but the plants he personally grows for himself. The purity is outstanding; he's never had this much clarity as a celestial being.

The reason he stares as Rehan is—to him, she's nearest to The Heavenly Mother as the woman herself. He's never been around pregnancy or pregnant women. He's not naïve to the ways of sex and babies. He believes in a higher calling that life moves on to another soul through the spirit. He's had thousands of years of scripture battered into his brain all based on an immaculate conception. He's fairly certain Dean and Rehan's second child comes darn close to the same, at least in this future world. If it's anything, it's a mother fucking miracle. Castiel knows he'll be a proud—uhm... _something_. It depends on what mood Dean is in on the baby's birthday.

Sam... _Sammy_... he has the rightful slot of “uncle”. Castiel doesn't want to usurp that role; it's not his to play. It was always supposed to be Sam, no one else. Strange how he sees the younger Winchester now. He knows Sam is a tall, muscular and mature adult, but that “Sam” is now Lucifer. Nah, Castiel chooses “Sammy”—the man-child he can envision as this future world's saving grace. Not a prophet or a Lord, but... the salvation they will need to be whole again. To be who they really and truly are.

“Dean, my boy... can we talk in private?” Bobby darts his gaze between everyone in the room.

Dean places a hand on Bobby's back to steer him away to another part of the large room. “Uh, yeah, sure...”

Rehan knows a “cue” when she sees one; Castiel isn't that lucky. She wanders over to lock her arm through his elbow and turns him around the direction he came in. “I made you a pie, Cas, would you like a slice?”

“Is there vanilla bean ice cream?” Castiel's heart always picks up pace when he feels her touch; her natural scent is what nearly renders him speechless.

“Isn't there always?”

Bobby waits until the door closes on its hinges before he says a word to Dean. “So... how does it feel? An' don't be feedin' me yur usual cockamamie bullshit.”

“I don't like _any_ of it. I know it's not good to 'hate', but the last thing we need here is to deal with more 'issues'.” Dean shakes his head as it's still a mystery how anyone can live in this world and not go insane. “I'm not ever gonna understand what the hell's been going on, but I know I can handle the situation.”

“It's easier when you know yur suppos'd ta exist.” Bobby shakes his head sadly. “Whut bunches my panties is havin' ta deal with zombies an' now these soulless dimwitted assholes who can't hack it.”

“Yeah, I heard 'bout them. Some called them 'subhumans' or 'bots... _robots_ , I'm assuming.” Dean folds his arms to tuck his hands under his biceps. “Do they really believe that having no soul anchors them here for good?”

“Apparently. An' I don't give a gosh-darn if we have fifty angels and scientists here tellin' us wha's goin' on, so we're not always flyin' blind as a bat.” Bobby's rather passionate about his “cause”, so he points at the air as he talks. “Alls I know is that business was started by Lucifer, himself, or one of his minions. They get more souls an' we lose people every day.”

“Well, I can understand the draw— _to guarantee your life here?_ It's a smart choice, but I doubt it works.” Dean lifts one lone eyebrow in curiosity. “Has anyone been here long enough to prove it works?”

“Nah...” Bobby turns a bit to sit himself on a desktop, hitching his hip upward. “... they got tha testifiers sayin' that they don't feel tha fears we do when tha shakes ah-comin'. But, well... I ain't felt as frighten'd as I used to an' I still got my soul.”

“My worry is that we lose numbers against Lucifer.”

“We weren't strong ta begin with, but now—since we seem ta be leavin' tha barn door open fur any old thing ta happen—we outnumber tha Army. Ain't sure how it works if yur real self meets yur zombi-fi'd-self.”

Dean nods his head in understanding, looks at the floor then back up to Bobby. His index finger points at Bobby's face. “Your eye? Did you—?”

“Here. I injur'd it here. I still got it. It ain't, like, glass or sewn shut. The scar I got took away from my pure aesthetic beauty.”

Dean lets out a genuine, hearty laugh. “I like the new clothes too.” He keeps giving his old friend a once-over, simply because he's only seen him in his old clothes and a nice suit. This is a new “look” that could grow on him.

“Do ya'? I's been nice ta alternate.” Bobby glances down at himself, smoothing a palm down his torso. “I like my old wardrobe fur when it's full-on ass-kickin' time, but I do this get-up fur travelin'.” He means “traveling” in the sense that he's an “ambassador” of the town, not that he vacations during a time of crisis.

“Oh, by the way, some of the men mentioned I need to see _something_ at your place.” Dean furrows his brow in perplexity, watching as Bobby acts as confused as he is.

“ _My house_?”

“Uh, your junkyard, I thought.”

“What? That old rundown shit-hole? Christ, I haven't been there in months, boy.”

“Do you have any idea what could be there?”

“Well, seein' as I ain't been there in so long... who knows...”

“Does Cas know?”

“Nah, I wouldn't think he would. He keeps to himself, mostly.” Bobby lifts up one end of his mouth in a smirk, his head gesturing behind him to the right. “Though he seems to be developin' quite a hard-on fur Rehan.”

“I know. I couldn't help noticing.” Dean frowns, unsure how he should feel or react. “I don't know exactly how to feel about that. Not outraged, just... wary. If there's something going on there that they wanna pursue, I wouldn't be—damn, I know that makes me sound like an ass, but I'm not sure I'm in the right head space to be the husband she needs. Well, the one she remembers.”

“Don't walk away an' abandon her or that baby.” Bobby uses his pointing index finger to push at Dean's chest as he exaggerates a backward near-fall. “If I see ya hightailin' it outta town, I'll bring ya back by yur short hairs.”

“Yew-ouch!” Dean playfully elbows Bobby. “You tired?”

“No. Why?”

“Wanna take a ride with me to your old place?”

Bobby rolls his wrist around, looking down at his wristwatch. “Ya sure ya wanna do this now, so late? I'm sure it'll keep 'til mornin', if ya need yur rest.”

“I've been dead for three months... how much more rest could I need?”

“Good point.”

 **~~ &&~~**

Sam hears the raucous laughter and the sounds of wild partying. He doesn't think anyone is guarding the door. In fact, he's sure there isn't. In the last few hours, people have been arriving and leaving the old Singer place. Feels like school just let out for the summer and all the cool kids are living life to the fullest.

 _Weird_. Wasn't there an Apocalypse going on? Why was everyone so happy and jubilant?

Sam doesn't understand until he starts to hear one thing over and over again—like a fucking mantra... _Dean. Dean Winchester's alive. Dean's back..._ Dean— _Dean_ — ** _Dean_**. This makes no sense, especially when Sam swears his body reacted more to the sound of the name than the words uttered.

Was Dean dead? Had he been dead and, uh... resurrected? Or had he simply been sick, close to Death's door, but he hadn't knocked hard enough?

It's not an unfamiliar feeling at the sound of the name “Dean”. It happens when he is with Samuel, his grandfather. Sam's very aware of Dean's importance and how, because of his brother's sacrifices, he is the hunter that he is. Skills that Sam-with-a-soul refused to bring out unless it was life or death.

It's a feeling Sam gets when he does those self-mandatory late night checks on how Dean is—life with Lisa and Ben. It looks... like he's watching through a television screen at the perfect family. There's no sound, so he never knows what they're saying. There's action but sometimes they can be interpreted wrong. Samuel sent Sam out on these missions, mainly because he thought the boy needed to be reminded of what once was. But there was nothing inside Sam that remembered who Dean was and why he was integral. He had to be told how he felt, how he should feel.

Sam never feels anything. It just never lasts long enough to invade his head and conflict his thoughts.

There is a sudden shift in noises, chairs pushed back, furniture being rearranged and people seem to be leaving with only a few remaining. Of those few, four head downstairs to the panic room.

Sam settles down on the mattress, shutting his lids and feigning sleep. He was given an evening tray of gruel, which he knows was laced with tranquilizers or sleeping pills. The food tasted funny, but he has already flushed all those pesky symptoms out of his system. They should've doped him with Ketamine, maybe he would've caught a few winks of rest.

The lock is undone, the handle is turned and the familiar creak of the metal signals that they've come for him. Sam knows this because why else would four men show up if it was only going to be more taunting and trying to goad him into harming them so they could hurt him? He can hear their graphic words to call him every name in the book to make him feel weak and small, belittle him to give up control. He wants to laugh in their faces because there's nothing they can do to him that will cause him to bend to their whims.

The chain is undone first. Hands are already falling to his ankles and arms, even though he's restrained. He wants to teach them a lesson. Nothing profound, just more about preparedness and never letting their guards down. They're all a bit drunk and high, sustaining on heightened merriment and a rush of testosterone. He's expecting them to keep holding him, maybe using the chain again as they walk him upstairs, possibly going to put him “on display” for some kind of sport.

That's what he thinks this is about. He's become their toy for the night. Their pet... a veritable dog that needs to obey to their whims. They'll string him up on something and attempt to torture him, but the fact that he isn't Lucifer is what makes everything they're doing, with this showmanship, pretty pointless. He refuses to fight or struggle until he actually knows where he's being brought to.

No one is talking about anything except demeaning him and making empty promises he knows they cannot fulfill. It takes all four men to carry him up the steps; restraints are still on and the long towing chain is slack, but has been picked up to drag along the way. The heavy links scrape the cement flooring of the basement, then the _plunk-plunk_ of the wooden stairs that lead up to the first floor. There's too much focused concentration on heavy lifting for them to notice Sam's eyes opening to half-slits. He's checking out his perimeter, counting heads to make certain he knows how many people he's up against.

What stuns Sam most is how barren Bobby's place has become; it's nearly a hollowed-out-shell of its former self. All the various books and handmade wooden bookshelves are gone; there's a few pieces of reading material left but they likely have nothing to do with research. Walls are missing; not only inner ones, but outer ones. Though the front door still remains the main entrance, there is only a cool air draft wafting throughout where the huge bombed and decaying walls of plaster are. It's freezing up here with all that wind being let in and it has become an adult fort, or tree house, for these overgrown man-children who have turned “hunting things” into a sport or a fairly simple game of male competition. They have no other form of entertainment and they have no recourse to direct their prowess during these frustrating lulls. Most of them don't dare care about the quakes or the tremors, much less the cracks left destroying the very fabric of their lives. Revenge makes their blood boil and their asses are lazy. Some aren't highly-educated men who came from white-collar jobs before the Apocalypse, but one or two do sprinkle the bunch.

Counting the men lugging him, Sam totals that there are three extra men in the large living room. It's clear there's a hierarchy of power taking over rather immediately. These new faces may or may not have the same intentions the townsfolk do. In fact, it's almost certain when the ring leader directs the four men to carry their human cargo to the long rectangled table. For now, they'll look over what they have and assess what's to be done next.

Sam isn't dropped none-too-gently; he's thrown down, hard, so his head cracks against the solid wood. His facial ticks contract, showing that he could be waking, reacting to the pain. Sam feels nothing akin to pain; he hasn't since... well, since the real Sam swan-dived into the cage belonging to Lucifer. What he _does_ feel is heat; it courses through him, through his blood and turns into rage and anger. The more his body suffers pain, it turns into a hidden promise of dormant violence ready to spew forth.

The four men who carried Sam move away to keep their desired distance as the true leader in this moment wanders over to Sam's side, looking down at him and admiring the familiar features. He's been waiting for this day for years, when he can finally get his hands around the throat of unforgiving darkness who lead him down the path of this debauchery. It's unreal to fathom that pure evil rests so peacefully in this young man's body. When facing Lucifer, one must forget the body, and the face, he inhabits. That human no longer exists.

Sam senses the close scrutiny, wishing he could see this man, not visualize him in his mind. There's a brush of a cold knuckle down his stubbled cheek, then a hand clamps on his shoulder joint.

“How much are you asking for him?” The voice isn't foreign, but it's cultured. The soft caresses belie a truth. There is no way he's leaving this compound without Lucifer in his keeping.

“Well, we're not even sure if—”

“Singer doesn't know we got 'im.”

“What do you mean?” The hand on Sam's shoulder tightens, fingers leaving deep nail marks. “Where is Robert?”

“Travelin'. On tha wah-tur. He got 'imself ah nice fishin' boat.”

“Fishing? In the middle of an Apocalypse?” The hand is removed to settle back into a pocket of his silky trousers, shaping into a fist in frustration.

It's half true, half false. Bobby tells them to say to anyone not from town that he's “ ** _—gone fishin'—_** ”, but he's actually deeply involved in other business that will help them survive this future world.

“It's Bobby Singer. I wouldn't put it past him.” One of the three men working for the cultured man speaks out.

Not totally understanding who this man is they're meeting with, one of the four men who carried Sam chooses to state the obvious. “Look at this place. Does it _look_ like he lives here anymore?”

“Does he?”

“Huh?”

“Are you deaf or just plain stupid?”

“Answer him.”

It's at this point that Sam opens one eye, barely, as the man who wants to “own” him has turned in profile. It's weird to see a sharp-dressed man amongst the hunters. A ring of silver-like metal glints off a finger as it rests on the topper of a wooden cane. A faint whiff of cologne wafts over, of bar soap like Irish Spring in combination. Sam's fairly certain, though the guy hasn't harmed him, he isn't trustworthy.

There's no way Sam's leaving with this man. No way.

 **~~ &&~~**

Bobby's Lincoln Continental isn't the Impala, but it gets them to the junkyard in record time, and comfort. No real law enforcement or government is around to dictate rules of the road. As they enter the high piles of junked automobiles, there's a shift in the air both can sense with dread. The closer they approach the house, they realize why they were hesitant.

It's tough to recall what was here before and what's different. There are glaringly obvious ones, but for the most part with five years gone on, an Apocalypse and a imbalance of worlds has turned what once used to be a strange comfort into a palpable nightmare. Parking in front of Bobby's old house, they get out of the car with shock and awe. They were expecting changes, but nothing to _this_ extreme.

Bobby scans one side while Dean looks over the other, each turning a three-sixty where they stood. They gaze across over the roof and cry out explicatives.

 **  
_“Jesus Christ and Hell Mary!!”_   
**   
**  
_“Fuck me sideways with a chainsaw!!”_   
**

Bobby is about to say something when his eyes spot a car he recognizes. Its black-lacquer and shiny, looks new and expensive. Kinda showy for a junkyard. “What in tarna-shun is HE doin' here!? On my dang-gon propurty!”

“Who—?” Dean's not sure what Bobby's talking about, but he glances over his shoulder to see the huge-ass Hummer and the vintage sports coupe. “Who is _this_? Why you look so agitated?”

“I shoulda known this wasn't sumthin' good.” Bobby speaks with pure venom coming out of his words. “Guy's name is Prescott. He wasn't much five years ago, but durin' a particularly horrific quake, he suddenly sprouts up. Hot on the trail fur Sam—well, Lucifer. It's been his only drive, from what I gathur. He's got a massive following. Runs tha town just south of us.”

“So why's he here? In _your_ junkyard?”

“I have no-good-god-dang idea, boy. But imma willin' ta find out.”

“Then lead the way. I'll be your back-up should things go... off-kilter.”

“Thanks, kid, but I don't need tha guardin'. Protect yurself.” Bobby opens his trunk to show the recessed, modified insides where his weapons' stash was hidden. “I'm gonna take the Luger and the Baretta, plus a knife.”

Dean pats the long knife strapped to his thigh. “Already got my blade, but I'll take this sawed-off.” He sees a flimsy knapsack in the corner. “Think we'll need to salt or burn anything?”

“Don' bothur. I know every hidin' place in that house, even without most of its walls.”

Dean shuts the lid and quickly catches up with Bobby's fast pace, walking in step with him.

They won't be entering through the front door. The only safe way in is to ambush them from a back entrance— _there seems to plenty of those now_ —and then take everyone down as if the whole town of Resistance fighters are with them.

~~&&~~   
Sam knows it was foolish of him, but he was bored with the back-n-forth dialogue not going anywhere. So he started to mumble and fidget.

That caused everyone to take a step backward; some were hiding in doorways.

He went still, then vibrated his body to arch off the table and release a low growl; this makes everyone take a better distance further away. He thinks he makes a convincing possessed human. He goes still again, then opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling above him. This allows him to see the stark white Devil's Trap painted on the ceiling. He begins to chant in Latin and that causes at least one of the four men, who carried Sam, to run out of the house, jogging well-past his own car.

Slowly, Sam rises off the table surface, sitting upright as he concentrates his gaze to scan the room. He makes it look like whatever “thing” is overtaking him is forcing him to pick a victim. He chants more Latin phrases that don't mean anything and climbs off the table with restraints and chains still confining him, then he collapses on the floor. Everyone pauses, taking a few minutes to make sure that Lucifer was done and wasn't about to do anything else.

 **  
_“Quick! Get him up! Put him over there! You!... and you!... help them! There's no telling how strong he is once the tranq-s wear off!”_   
**

Sam is letting them lift him again. There are dozens of hands touching him, making sure he doesn't move an inch. He isn't sure what they're placing him on; it's another flat surface, where his arms are stretched out from his sides and his legs are locked together straight down. Then he's being hoisted upright at a slant, arms and legs extended as far as possible and locked under iron-binds instead of leather restraints. They are taking off his shoes and socks; they want stretches of bare skin exposed so they can find the exact point of contact where Lucifer will be most weak. They also ripped off his long-sleeved, button-down plaid shirt, leaving him in his white tank-t and worn jeans.

There is one or two of the four men who carried Sam beginning to consider that they might be heading past a point of no return. It's because they don't “see” pure evil or Lucifer; they only see Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester's little brother. They see the graceful human, not the evil incarnate.

The three men who are with Prescott do not feel remorse. They are soulless, just like their boss. They already know that the three men still left behind won't make it out alive if Lucifer isn't handed over. Cash deal or not; they _will_ walk out with his vessel dead or alive.

Sam's been lolling his head around his neck, half-masted eyes scoping out who he's up against—three humans and four soulless beings. It's weird that he can detect another like him; he doubts they have the same abilities he does. After all, none of them were hand-picked; they willingly gave over their souls. Plus, none of them had Sam's half-demon blood coursing through their veins, that had to be a “check mark” on the PRO side for him.

It isn't much longer for him to bear the hues of evening moonlight before there's a black silk hood placed over his head.

Okay, now... _this_ was just poor planning...

 **~~ &&~~**

Dean climbs up the make-shift stairs to jump up into what used to be Bobby's dinette off the kitchen. He sees, and hears, the clutter of men in what was once the living room. He counts off on one hand, to Bobby, how many people are in the room, then how many he'll cover. Bobby nods once, then uses his hand to tell Dean he will go around the back way, into the living room, to come through a hole in the plaster of the wall. Dean nods his head as he furrows his brow in concentration, his green eyes keen on what's happening in the other room.

He knows there's an uneven divide of men. Three look like townsfolk, four look like they've come down from an urban setting—like a big metropolitan city. But there's a lone figure he has his gaze on only because the height and gait are so like Lucifer's in Sam's meatsuit. It's a chance that it's Sam... or the lookalike, but the hair is too short and the three business suit-wearing goons look a little too much like mafia. Last time Dean checked, Lucifer worked alone or he sent his minions in lieu of his presence to do his dirty work, never did the two meet.

Dean's not sure what they circle around or are looking at. What he does know is it keeps him undetected and undercover as he meanders around a toppled bookshelf to come up behind the three goons—shotgun barrel at the middle one's nape. “State your business here an' I won't fill all three of you full of bullet holes.”

Everyone puts their hands up, even the one they call “Prescott”. He moves to lift the hood over Lucifer's head, but Bobby surfaces from his hiding place, the butt of his Baretta pushing against the stark white temple. “Eh, eh, eh... I wouldn't touch 'im if I was you. Yur trespassin' on private propurty, Snow White.”

“Bobby, we...” A voice from the trio of townsfolk speaks out.

“Not _now_ , Curtis.” Bobby attempts to direct instructions to the three men from town. “Take 'em boys an' git outta here. Me an' Dean got this.”

“But...”

“We got the calvary comin'.” Bobby doesn't want to show Prescott or his men any chance they could find him weak or vulnerable. He tries to keep his tone at an even level, without sounding like he's parental. “Leave. Now.”

“Sorry, Bobby.”

“Yeah, sorry, Bobby.”

The younger male who had been guarding Sam steps close to Bobby. “I can stay if you need, Mr. Singer. I feel this is partly my fault.”

Bobby can smell ass-kissing from a mile away. “Not right now, huh?” He tries to show the youth how they're using loaded weapons to restrain the four outsiders. “Head back into town. Kiss yur wife, hug yur kids an' be with yur family. This ain't nun-o yur fault, boy.”

“Thanks, Mr. Singer.” The young male now looks to Dean. “Dean...” There's a quiet acceptance and a unspoken “thanks”.

Dean doesn't know who's greeting him. He doesn't say a word, but nods his head to watch the youth's exit. The minute they hear the vehicles start up, Bobby and Dean put their guns away.

Bobby backs up to get a better look at Prescott. “So tell me why Vamps are all tha way uptown?”

Dean's a bit miffed because Bobby only said he _knew_ this _man_ , not _what_ he was, exactly. The fact they were vampires made it a bit more interesting.

“Where else can we go for vacation?”

“It's a little far outta yur territory.”

“Not to mention your comfort zone.” Dean crosses arms over his chest, grabbing onto elbows.

Bobby nods his head in agreement, raising both eyebrows. “Didja think tha regulations of our pact were jus' mere suggestions?”

“I did not forget, Robert. If you would allow me to show you—I think you'll see that my reason for being here has everything to do with my livelihood and my clan's very existence.”

Both Dean and Bobby wrinkle their foreheads, then glance at one another; Dean is still behind the three goons. Bobby clears his throat to turn his gaze back to Prescott. “I know the zombies are wipin' out you lot as well, but comin' here—? You're jus' awakenin' a sleepin' dog that needs ta lie dead.”

Prescott gestures with his bonded hands of two palms together. “May I?” He points to Lucifer's hanging body.

Bobby looks over at Dean, who nods. “Do it, but make it fast. I got a roast in tha oven.”

Prescott wanders over to the slumped form of Lucifer, grabs the chin through the silk hood as he holds the base of the elongated throat. He pulls off the material in a flourish. “See!” He seems proud of his find.

Bobby blinks rapidly, but attempts to focus his eye without the bifocal lens. “Dean...”

“Huh?” Dean walks around the goons to come around and looks directly at what lays on the sacrificial cross-like contraption.

“... it's Sam.”

It's as if Dean can't take the sight from that close so he walks to the end of the table, able to now look directly across to gaze at this vision of “Sam”. He is glad for the distance he created; he wants to scramble over the surface of the table and choke the body draped in captivity. “... _jesus_...”

“It's Lucifer.” Prescott announces as if Dean and Bobby don't know who is before them. “Sam Winchester no longer exists.”

“Wrong.” Bobby slowly shakes his head in disagreement. “If you bothered to come down from your high tower once-n-awhile you'd know that ** _that_**...” Bobby puts away his Baretta to use his finger to point. “... ain't Lucifer.”

“But it is. Your men...”

“—couldn't dig me a hole in the ground if I left them instructions and a shovel.”

One of the three vampire goons snorted out a laugh, then hurriedly apologized for the disruptive outburst.

“I don't get it.” Prescott is beyond confused at this point. He doesn't know why he can't believe truth from false. “He's—it looks _exactly_ like him. They said he—well, they claimed he told them he was Lucifer in the body of Sam Winchester.”

“Well, he ain't.”

Prescott holds up a palm, wishing for straightforward answers. “Now, wait—how can you tell? Just by looking at him?”

“Yes, exactly... but, _you wait_ —ain't no way-no how that sinister bastard angel gonna be caught in a get-up like that.”

“Clothes, Robert? Please... don't make me out to be stupid.”

Dean clears his throat. “You seem to be doing that perfect on your own.”

Prescott doesn't even bother to turn his head to speak to Dean; he's an afterthought. “I don't need comments from the peanut gallery, Dean Winchester.”

Dean is a bit taken aback, but he's used to Vamps like this one. “You _do_ , if I say Bobby is 100% right.”

“Look, I know he's your brother and you feel a bit melancholy over losing him—”

“ _That_ has nothing to do with _this_.” Dean positions himself so that Prescott has no other means to look away. He's gesturing to himself with a finger and then his whole fist. “I've seen Lucifer. I've come face-to-face with him and lost the battle. He actually looks a helluva lot like you, my friend... than that _thing_ —whatever you got over there.”

Prescott turns to Bobby. “I suppose you've seen Lucy too?”

“I have an'... he wouldn't be caught dead— _pardon tha irony_ —in this situation much less in those jeans and t-shirt.” Bobby uses his head to point at all four of them and how lucky they are to still be alive. “Every one of ya jackasses'd be dead or eviscerat'd in tha spot where ya stood.”

For some reason, Dean looks up and rolls his eyes; he squats down to take a peek under the table, then rests hands on the ledge of the table, spanning them wide apart. “Was he on _this_ table?”

“Uh, yeah...” Prescott thinks that's the most odd and random question to ask. “... what does _that_ have to do with—”

“Look above and below.” Dean points to ceiling, then taps the underside of the table. “Devil Traps, but not just any. They would've rendered him— _immovable_. And maybe if you knew a bit of Latin— _you should really find a hunter when you get a chance_ —you could've spun a few phrases to mess with his head.” He shapes a finger around his own head. “He might only be Lucifer, but at his core, he's a demon.”

“I'll take that advice to heart.” Prescott stands back, folding his arms to look at the man strewn across the contraption. “So... if he _is_ Sam Winchester, why did he say he _wasn't_ —?”

Sam lifts his head slowly. “—'cuz I _am_ Sam Winchester.” He shakes his head and instantly he's healed. “And, in a way, I'm _not_.”

“Why did you tell them you were?” Prescott narrows his gaze on Sam, looking him up and down in instant disgust. He doesn't appreciate being led astray.

“ ** _I_** didn't. No amount of denial would've proved me right or wrong.” Sam shrugs nonchalantly. “And, in truth, I don't really give a flying fuck. I'm not supposed to be here.”

“Say again?” Prescott isn't clear on what that pertained to.

“I'm actually from five years ago. I'm here to— _observe_.”

“Whut?” Bobby is outraged by the news. “Are we now some kind of 'sportin' game' from the past.”

“No.” Sam methodically swivels his head to look at Bobby. “Far as I know, I'm the only one here on purpose. I'm not responsible for what's going on.” At least, he thinks he isn't.

“So, you truly _are_ Sam Winchester? From _where_? Before or after you become Lucy's bitch?”

“You said 'no'?” Bobby asks with some curiosity.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, spit it out.” Bobby hates this creepy hesitative speech. “What did you say, boy?”

“I didn't say, I simply jumped.”

“Jumped where?”

“Into the mouth of Hell. Into an abyss of nothingness. Into Lucifer's cage.”

“And that was in no way saying 'yes'?”

“Technically 'no'.”

“And Dean?” Bobby can see the staring contest between Sam and Prescott. “Boy, I asked you a question.”

“Dean was left out of the equation. I brought someone else with me.”

“How? That's impossible.” Bobby feels his head about to explode; he puts a hand to his forehead to smooth over the skin. “There can't be—so close to zero-hour, how can there have been a direct bloodline found?”

“Dean and I _aren't_ the only sons of John Winchester.” Sam makes the comment so fluidly it's almost inaudible.

“Son, you bettur shut yur piehole an' be glad yur all strung up or I'd come over there an'—”

To which Sam busted out of the iron locks and threw off the towing chain like it was lint on his shirt. As he begins to move, everyone notices how fully healed and non-perspiring he's starting to look. Even his clothes take on a new sheen; he hasn't perfected redressing or mending rips or tears, but he's decently dressed and everything is clean. He hops down off the sacrificial cross and stands barefoot-to-shiny-loafer with Prescott. “You can go now. Show's over.”

“I don't believe how you can—do all that an' not be...” Prescott has never seen someone like _this_ Sam Winchester.

“You forget who I am. At six months old, I was made half-demon. I, uh... stumbled around and faltered because I was conflicted. I was good, wasn't I? Or am I now evil, forgetting how I was prior to Good Ole Yellow Eyes finding all his 'special children' useful? That was when I had a soul... now I don't. Allows my 'better side' to enhance its—new, but old features.”

Prescott turns to look at Dean. “Is this true? Could he—is he able to tap into his powers as a demon—whenever he wants?”

Dean isn't looking at Sam as he talks. “With the addition of another, stronger demon's blood, sure, but I really didn't hang around to watch him while he—-”

Prescott no longer wants to be here anymore. The air is stifling and he thinks he's getting sick from all the mildew. “Fine! I'll go, but I'll expect a message to be sent to me when everything has been figured out and dealt with. This obviously becomes more of a, uh... 'family' issue.”

Bobby is about to say his farewells when, in two snaps of his fingers, Prescott and his men have vanished and the sound of engines revving outside tell of a hasty retreat. Since he can no longer yell at Prescott, Bobby directs his attention to Sam. “Tell me straight what tha hell ya done-did ta change tha very tapestry this—-whole shitstorm is based on.”

Sam explains it simple and plain. “John had another family—a wife, a son. The same shitty fathering except Adam got the scraps leftover from Dean and I.”

“How'd they know 'bout him?” Bobby doesn't even recall John ever telling him about this “other family”. He knows he would've been on his best friend's ass constantly.

“I don't know.” Sam shrugs, bending down to pick up his discarded shirt. “They're Angels... kinda know-it-all pricks.” He glances over the state of this clothing and finds it unwearable, so he throws it over his shoulder. “Adam came looking for John and then... I suppose it didn't matter who was Michael's sword as long as Sam Winchester came to the table.”

“And that— _what_? Unleashed a different kinda Hell?”

“Nope.”

“There's nothin' goin' on five years ago?”

“No, not that you'd notice. There's a bit of a sting left. I think everyone was prepared for a bloodbath, but none of it touched earthly ground.”

“What's going on up there?” Bobby points upward to Heaven, but it's actually decaying floorboards

“Couldn't tell you. Castiel won't call me back.”

“Sumthin' must be brewin' 'cuz... well, it's still a Zombie Apocalypse, but now we got roller coasturs an' ferris wheels.”

“I'm sorry.” Sam doesn't wrinkle his brow too much just doesn't let the words register in his mind. “That euphemism escapes me.”

“IT MEANS...” Dean decides to interject. “... our good buddy Zach opened a portal to get me to say 'yes'... but when I took his life, things went untouched. The damage was done, Angels coming left and right a bit miffed. Then, I don't know, you did your swan dive into the cage with Adam which wasn't exactly the kind of acceptance they were expecting. You two must've changed not only your own destinies, but every single god-damn living and breathing beings'. You and I still exist as ourselves, but yet... other people(not us) are either disappearing or dropping in as the world we live in shakes, rattles and rolls.”

“Welcome...” Bobby flourishes his two arms as if to give off a real warm “welcome”. “... to APOCALYPSE NOW!”

It's as if Sam's been permitted to look at Dean closely. He can't help but smile because now he feels a kinship... a different brotherhood with future Dean. There is a subtle difference to him that five years tack on; on the surface, no one notices. Sam is the only one who sees that _this_ Dean has become as unfeeling and soulless as he is.

“What? What are you fuckin' lookin' at?” Dean's unnerved by the cool hazel stare.

“Hello, Dean, have you missed me?” Sam is close enough to reach out an arm and pull Dean in for one of their trademark hugs. But there's a boundary, or a wall, being put up that Sam can't cross. He won't cross it, but it'll be nice to work with his brother again.

“... **_you son-of-a-bitch!_**...” Dean pulls back, steps forward and cold-cocks Sam right in the face.

Sam feels it; he always feels the pain of impact as the injury bleeds or bruises his outer shell. It never lasts. He collapses to the floor, using the table as leverage before he falls over. He's stunned when Dean nears him to push his face into his line of vision. He's the one who set the boundaries, yet has crossed them twice already.

“You... are _not_ my brother! You... are _not_ Sam! You may not be Lucifer, but you're _nothing_ to me. You're _no-body_.” Dean looms above Sam, catching him on his knees in a submissive position. “You're _not_ family, but I'm not stupid enough to let you stay here to get caught by someone else.”

“I can sustain myself in the panic room.” Sam can keep to himself; he doesn't need Dean to survive. “I don't need...”

“I'm not letting you out of my sight. This is my town; I own you... you're my property. You do and say whatever I tell you. This is my world, my Hell... and you don't get to 'observe' anything... _freak_...” It's the one word Dean has never wanted to use for Sam, but his angers boils to a point where it's better than what he wants to call him.

Bobby understands why Dean is this way, but it's almost too much to bear. “Dean, son... why don't you...”

“Nah...” Dean puts up a hand to prevent Bobby from giving him a speech he won't ever pay attention to. “I'm done with this crap. I'm done with bein' yanked an' pulled in seven fuckin' different directions, having my family and my own life toyed with like we're nothin' but marionette puppets. Always bein' faulted when shit falls apart and left amongst the rubble... we—I—suffer in the aftermath of their fuck-ups. I'm taking back my life, my future—my world. **I** —am pulling the puppet strings now. Me. Even if I have to die a hundred more times, I'm am rightin' all the wrongs and putting an END to this cosmic, destiny bullshit.”

There's minutes of uncomfortable silence. Sam picks himself off the floor and leans against the table ledge. Bobby swivels around to show his back as he stares at a wall that used to be the back end of his living room.

Outside, Castiel has finally arrived; the low rumble of tires on gravel fills the quiet desperate air.

Dean clears his throat to announce, “Stay as long as you need, Bobby. I'm catchin' a ride with Cas.” He gives one last look to Sam, but doesn't bother to lift his chin, staring at the huge bare feet. “Watch him for me. I don't trust myself with him, right now. I'm might fuckin' kill him.” He leaves the house out the real front door.

“Well...” Sam sits on the table, hitching a hip on the edge to swing his foot. “... that wasn't exactly the family reunion I had in my head.”

“Shut up, boy. Be satisfied with whut ya got. This is a Dean workin' off a different outcome where BOTH of ya said 'yes'. Granted, it wasn't real, but... well, I think ya understand. That kid has been ta Hell an' back more times than I have had a mani/pedi. Cut 'im some slack.” Bobby expected some typical “Sam quirks” to the face, emotions settling and registering into his body. But there's nothing surface he can decipher clearly. “If you stay long enough, maybe he'll come around.” He reaches out to tap gently on the thick kneecap, oddly freaked when he feels a bit of warmth.

“So I can't stay here?” Sam's willing to hibernate wherever he's out of the way, until he's called back.

“I ain't gonna allow ya ta stay here.” Bobby makes a face as he looks about the shelled-out space, feeling a chill to his bones over the freezing air. “I don't know what Dean plans on doin' with ya while yur here, but... I got a spare room you can have.”

“It doesn't matter. I don't need a bed.”

“Boy...”

“I'm not—I'm not being flippant, old man. I just _don't_ sleep.”

“Whut? At all?”

“Nope. Not since Adam and I took that leap.”

“How long's that been?”

“Six or seven months, give or take.”

“Jesus... well, I'm not gonna have you creepin' out my people, so...”

“People?” Sam tries to think about Bobby's wife and if they had wanted children or not. He can't recall much of anything at the moment. His focus stays on Dean. “Did you finally have a family through all this?”

“Nah, I think I got sumthin' better. I became a political powerhouse—Governor, apparently. It's my old staff, but I ain't been comfortable with that word. They aren't working fur me as much since the Apocalypse. They live with me now, of their own choice. Comin' an' goin' as they please an' if they feel like it... well, I won't refuse them, if they wanna do their old jobs to keep occupied.”

“Your obsolete now? No law, no government?”

“It comes an' it goes. But yeah, sumthin' like that, though it gives me access to things so we manage to stay ahead of others when the quakes happen and the days progress on.”

“When was the last one?”

“Almost two hours ago, when Dean came alive again—the _right_ Dean.”

“Are they frequent or infrequent?”

“The bigger one— _the quakes_ —are further apart. It's the tremors that happen more, but don't get reported all the time.”

“Exactly how do any of you know when _something's_ different—besides the population fluctuation? And how do you know _where_ they happen?”

“Cracks in the pavement... cracks in the Earth, cracks in the foundations of houses or buildings. But mostly the pavement.”

The front door slams, making both Bobby and Sam think that Dean has returned. It's only Castiel.

“He told me that—” Castiel sets his eyes on Sam and nearly faints. He catches himself by a hand on the wall. “... _dear Heavenly Father_...” He doesn't even feel the mistiness in his eyes or the huge tears pouring out of them as he walks over to Sam. “... kneel— _please_...” He voice reverberates its sense of desperation. It's nothing weird or church-y; it's basically because after all this time he's forgotten how freaking tall Sam is. _Sammy..._

Sam doesn't know why he obeys, but he does. The feel of Castiel's hands on his face feel warm and soothing— _like a mother's_ —and not chilled or purposeful like they would've been five years ago. “You're not—” It's rather obvious that Castiel is not the same.

“An Angel, no. I fell from grace—right outta the sky. Kicked to the curb. Thrown out of my own clubhouse.”

“The 'look' is—I don't know.” Sam's not sure how he would be able to take it if Castiel dressed like this years ago. But it makes sense that if everything changed, so would Castiel. “It oddly _suits_ you.”

“Am I still—?” This isn't the reason Castiel wants to see Sam, but he has to ask for his own sanity.

Sam nods slowly. “Last time I saw you, yes. Same suit and trenchcoat.”

Castiel can't help himself. He shapes Sam's head in his palms, pressing his own face and forehead against cool, dry skin. He mutters under breath some beautiful poem in a celestial language only heard in Heaven or by other Angels.

And Demons. Sam hears every word Castiel utters perfectly, but Bobby only hears fast-paced gibberish, watching as the Hippie-Angel brushes lips and almost kisses Sam quite lovingly. It's like he's worshiping at his own altar of Sammy.

Castiel pulls Sam to his oafish height and hugs the massive chest tight, pushing his head to the upper right breast, above the heart. He feels a heady thrum but not certain it's a heart as much as it's blood pumping through veins to keep Sammy's-shell alive and kicking. He's not expecting the arms to enfold him. They don't; the hands awkwardly pat on Castiel's back, attempting to show what Sam thinks is compassion. He wants to laugh; he likes _this_ Castiel. Sam didn't want a massive lovefest from Dean, but he had felt the strong connection from _this one_ and then Dean denies him. _This_?—this isn't what he wanted either, but it feels oddly nice and sweet.

“Cas, let 'im go. I think the 15 Second Rule applies here.”

Reluctantly, Castiel pulls backward, head bowed at the glorious sight before him. “... _right_ — ** _right_**... must recall when too much is too much... boundaries, must remember them...” He finally lifts his head, blue eyes alight and a smile so wide his eyes crinkle at the edges with more tears forming to fall. “Mr. GrumpyPants wants to go home. I should go or he'll hotwire the car.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Cas.”

“Yes, yes... you will, won't you? I'll see you too. Again. But tomorrow...” As he walks backward out of the living room, Castiel covers both hands over his mouth and jaw to contain his need to screech “Hallelujah”. “... _oh, yeah_...”

Bobby has to clear his throat to remind Castiel to stop his starry-eyed staring and haul ass. Once they hear the door shut, he turns to face Sam. “Sorry... I thought Cas wus a weirdo before.”

Sam can't help but let out his laugh; it's sounds stilted and forced. “It's fine.”

Castiel runs back into the room, snapping his fingers in mid-air. “My head's all crazy-nuts. I forgot to tell you—permanent invite... my place... whores, booze an' weed... anytime, anywhere... always welcome... g'bye an' g'night, ya'll!”

Sam smirks at Bobby. “Is he serious?”

“Unfortunately—yes.”

**~*~the end**


End file.
